Won’t it end in a lie if truth be told? Gold diggers say that when they don’t find gold. I got a flea-market here that just won’t perform. The sea is so rough they launch a shipwreck for the coming storm. Accountants sack their horses and succinctly bolt for the door. Writers have their feelings, but readers feel it’s all a bore. I’ve got nothing to say; mimes for rhymes; The seventh time it’s happened for several times. Let’s lose ourselves to see who wins. Let’s fillet a French film to see how it fins.
To see you again is such an again. Shop around for love but, before you buy, get into Zen. Workers working round the clock for way under hate overtime and little wonder. Do you think about what you’re saying before you have a fit? Have you ever been at home and trashed it? As broom sticks become crutches for witches I’m in tears and in stitches. Everyone and their learned and illiterate laughter is canned for what’s to come and the hereinafter.
Should I regret my ‘suicide’ or ‘death by misadventure’? Don’t ask; it’s just a benchmark for a bencher. Wear a sweater mundane. Keep it simple and plain.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 